


yellows, angles or silences

by queenklu



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-25
Updated: 2011-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-28 01:55:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/302457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenklu/pseuds/queenklu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So here’s the thing,” Dean says, bracing himself. “I feel…feelings.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	yellows, angles or silences

**Author's Note:**

  * For [goddamnbatman](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=goddamnbatman).



> Written for goddamnbatman in the spn_j2_xmas exchange! Things contained within are: Dean with superpowers (sort of), first time, bottom!Dean, and boys in their natural habitat. Title from ee cummings and if you spot any glaring mistakes please let me know, I didn't want to ask someone to beta for me Christmas Eve!

Dean missed his chance. Years ago. He missed it the moment Sam said, “I might have supernatural abilities that allow me to see the future, just FYI,” and Dean didn’t say, “Dude, join the club.”

Not that Dean has visions—no way could he have kept that a secret—but he’s not exactly apple pie normal. He’d wanted to be; at that point, he’d wanted that for Sam so much it was like a second heartbeat in his gut, a constant throbbing presence chanting Sam wants normal, he left you and Dad for normal, how long do you think he’ll stick around once he knows you’re a freak?

That’s the closest Dean ever got to saying it, in the Impala with the sun beating down on her shine and Sam still nightmare sweaty in the front seat. “That’s because you’re a freak. But I’m a freak too.” Or whatever. Moment there and gone, rolled under the tires and left by the side of the road.

For a while he didn’t have time to think about it, too caught up in keeping Sam safe and finding Dad, keeping Sam safe and losing Dad, keeping Sam safe and then failing. Bringing Sam back. Killing the demon. Living his last year the best that he knew how, holding his secret close to his chest until the hellhounds tore it to ribbons. And now that he’s back, he’s still got excuses galore. It’s just that right now none of them seem very important.

“Alright, Sam,” he mutters as he hunkers down, eyes closed to block out what little he can see in the dark. The graveyard dirt is mud under his hands, churned up by the pouring rain that’s still thudding cold and heavy against his back, slipping under the up-turned collar of his jacket. “Let me hear you.”

It’s not really something Sam does, but it helps sometimes pretending Sam can hear him. Like a submarine pinging out sonar into the depths. Like Batman.

The signal is weak—not thinking about that not thinking about what it could mean—just a dull throb of color at the back of Dean’s skull, green (because Sam is frustrated) bleeding into a deep, defeated blue. He doesn’t think Dean is coming for him. Or that Dean will get there in time.

“You’re just guessing, shut the fuck up,” Dean bites out at himself, and shifts in his crouch, tries to get a sense of where the hell the color is coming from. Rain stings his face, whipped up by the wind, obliterating any traces of the recently buried—if little Miss Elizabeth left any signs when she buried his brother alive, which is not always the case with vengeful fucking spirits. She’s crispy-fried now, locket of hair smoldering under the only other car in the parking lot, a beat up blue Subaru that Dean hopes Sam felt embarrassed driving, ‘cause Dean is gonna kick his ass.

A low, broken headstone trips him up and sends him sprawling, skidding in the mud. His hand sinks down to the wrist as he shoves himself up, cursing, and—

—and there’s a pulse of color under his palm, like clutching a mood ring; green, fierce green, going black at the edges like Sam is throwing everything he has into one last try.

“Hold on, Sammy,” Dean grits out around the dirt in his mouth, scrambling on his hands and knees to the shovel he dropped and nearly breaking it in two because, because standing will take him farther away from Sam and he’s already getting weaker, more black than green and the green is flickering, god fucking damn it--

The shovel hits wood, and thank every deity listening that it’s not a new one, not solid oak or some shit, just old beat up two-by-fours that Dean can wedge the shovel blade between and shove. He’s trying to be careful, doesn’t want to cut Sam open if he can help it, but Sam’s—Sam’s aura for lack of a better word is still dim, pulsing like a failing heartbeat, and Dean rips a chunk of the board free.

It’s Sam’s shoes. Dean has a terrified moment thinking that’s all there is, shoes, but then one of them kicks a little to the side and Sam’s feet are in them, Sam is alive. “Hey,” Dean says and has to gulp back something, “Hey, Sammy, hey, I’m here. I got you.”

“Dean?” Sam croaks, and his aura floods orange. Dean has to let go of his ankle fast—shit, hadn’t even realized he’d grabbed it—but he gives Sam’s shoe a thump to let him know he’s still here.

“Yeah. Sorry, man, she stuck you in here wrong way up. Can you breathe okay?”

“Better now,” Sam says around a shaky exhale, and Dean tries not to think about what it must’ve been like, musty skanky coffin air getting thinner and thinner; Dean is so glad Sam isn’t panicking it ties a knot in his throat. “But could you, uh. Don’t take your time, okay?”

“Yeah, I’m on it, just hang tight.”

“Not going anywhere,” Sam tries to joke, but it comes out wrong.

Dean sets his jaw and digs fast, exposing just enough of the coffin that Sam will be able to scoot down and shimmy out. The rain is still hurtling down, stiffening Dean’s joints and soaking Sam’s feet, and Dean is struck by the sudden hysterical knowledge that he is going to have nightmares about Sam drowning in this coffin before Dean can get him out. It’s awful, but it startles a laugh out of him.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice is anything but steady; Dean reaches out again, feels a flicker of purple that had always been there, lurking beneath the adrenaline green.

“I’m still here,” Dean promises without thinking, “Almost got you out, just a little bit longer.”

“I’m fine,” Sam lies, sounding annoyed even though the purple banks down. “Did you take care of the ghost?”

“Extra crispy,” Dean grunts. “Hang on a second, there’s a fucking boulder in the way.”

Sam falls quiet but his feet start squirming, and the purple starts bleeding back in. “How did you find me?” he calls out, voice torn ragged at the edges.

“Got it,” Dean grinds out, even though he still needs one last grunting yank to get the rock the fuck out of his way. “Alright, Sammy, I know this sucks but hold your breath, okay? I need to break a few more boards and it might get a little dusty.”

Dean winces, because it’s raining too hard for anything like dust, but he doesn’t want to say In case the coffin you’re trapped in collapses and I have to claw you out with my bare hands. He doesn’t want Sam more frightened than he already is. Hell, an ideal Sam would be a nice solid yellow, or maybe an orange. He’s been getting orange a lot since he came back from Hell, and Dean’s not exactly sure what it means but it’s a good color, he’s sure of it.

“Alright,” Sam says, not a single tremor in his voice, and miracle of miracles, his colors start taking a turn toward orange.

“On three. One—“ Dean counts it off, bracing himself, and still nearly pulls every muscle in his back splintering the coffin lid and shoving the boards to the side. His hands find Sam’s knees and his brother is already moving, legs folding up to make room for the rest of him in the space Dean has cleared. Dean grabs him, hauls him upright, and the lid gives with a crack that makes Dean flinch all down his spine, but Sam is good, Sam got out.

Sam is dirty, panting, clutching at Dean and unsteady on his feet, but god damn. Dean would hug him if he thought Sam wouldn’t fall over. Sam’s colors are flaring up everywhere under Dean’s hands—when he’s not touching it’s more like a lightshow in broad daylight, getting clearer if he focuses. Touching, though, is like getting pelted with balloons full of paint, stronger if it’s skin to skin. Dean honestly doesn’t give a shit now, just lets himself get bombarded until Sam catches his breath.

“Well,” Dean says, “That was fun.”

And the thing is, he’s kidding. Of course he’s kidding, that was about as much fun as getting hit by a semi—which Dean knows firsthand—but Sam looks at him then, like he hadn’t been looking before. Right.

Right, they were fighting before all this. Dean forgot.

“Listen,” Dean says, pulling away before Sam gets the chance, not far in case the moose’s legs give out on him. “Can we just go back to the hotel? Showers all around, a million years of sleep and a job well done, and we can just forget today ever happened.”

“…Yeah,” Sam says after a moment, but he doesn’t say Sounds like the best plan ever, O Wise and Knowledgeable One. He does, however, disentangle himself, leaning against the side of the grave when his knees give a little shake. Dean tries not to stare, tries even harder not to think about how long Sam was stuffed in a coffin that was definitely too small for him.

“Come on,” Dean says, gaze skimming away.

He has to help Sam out, fingers digging into Sam’s skin to keep him upright as they hobble to the car. Greens in all sorts of shades smack Dean upside the head, but he’ll take green over black any day of the week. It’s mostly directed inward anyway, Sam frustrated that his legs keep betraying him.

They’re both soaked and dirty enough that Dean cringes for the upholstery’s sake, but the truth is his baby’s seen worse. Sam is slightly drier but he’s shivering by the time they make it, and Dean cranks the heater for a second and just breathes, Sam back in the passenger’s seat picking at the splinters imbedded in his jeans with unsteady, dirt-caked fingers; he clenches them into a fist when he catches Dean looking.

Dean turns the radio to a level that means everything is normal and fine, no need to talk, and maybe he cuts a couple corners getting them back to the hotel as fast as possible. Sam doesn’t call him on it.

~*~

Sam walks straight into the bathroom like he owns the first shower—which he does, this time, Dean isn’t arguing, but Sam hasn’t said a word so Dean Looks a little. Sam’s colors are all pastels, probably from shock.

“I’m going out to get food,” Dean hollers through the door. Sam doesn’t answer, but the water turns on a pointed number of seconds later so Sam probably heard him. Dean doesn’t like the thought of Sam finding him gone, though, kind of hates it actually, and scribbles down a note like a girl, leaving it under a beer he fished from their cooler at the foot of the bed. Maybe Sam will take the hint and get drunk before Dean gets back.

He gets a couple funny looks at the gas station, and oh yeah, he is covered head to toe in mud. Rain washed some of it off his face but not all of it, and he bares his teeth at the cashier in a grin. The poor guy fumbles the change and Dean lets him keep the coins because it’s less hassle than finding them all, tucks the paper bag under his jacket and slip-slides his way back across the street, shaking off in the hallway before shoving his key in the lock.

Sam is out and dry-ish, dryer than Dean, though his hair is curling damp around his face. Now that the mud is gone Dean can see a scratch high on his cheek, and rough bruise on his forehead. His hands are the worst, scraped raw, nails broken from—Dean’s insides twist up. Sam is trying to take care of the worst of the jagged edges with a pair of clippers Dean doesn’t remember ever seeing before, but he looks up when Dean walks in.

It’s instinct at this point to reach out and check, but Dean grits his teeth and bites it back. He hasn’t used his—whatever, powers? Sixth sense? With an emphasis on Willis, not Shyamalan—he hasn’t used it this much in years. It’s a bit like trying to shove one of those springy snakes back in a jar for the next prank. While blindfolded and wearing oven mitts.

“Good to see you’re working on your manicure, Samantha,” Dean says, with a feeling that he’s been quiet too long.

Sam’s eyebrows twitch about a fraction of an inch, a Really? at the lame jibe, and Dean chucks the food bag at him, lowballing so it bounces on the bed and lands against Sam’s knee. Because he is that good.

The shower is heaven, pounding away at his sore back and shoulders, sluicing off the mud in his hair, behind his ears, fuck, everywhere mud should never be. He’s a little torn about letting it run long, use up all the hot water and hope Sam crashes before he gets out, but he’s a sucker and the thought of Sam alone in the room with his busted up hands trying to figure out if sleeping with the lights off is going to send him reeling with nightmares, convinced he’s back in that coffin—

Yeah, no. Dean wraps it up fast.

Sam’s moved on from his nails, or given up, wrangled bandaids around most of his fingertips. He’s trying to get one on his right ring finger with his left hand, scowling down at the mess he’s making of it.

“Hey, give it here,” Dean says, marching over to the bed with a towel slung around his hips.

“No thanks, Casa Erotica, I got it,” Sam says without looking up. He looks a little hot, like the start of a fever, maybe. Considering how long he was underground…but at least he’s got a little snark back. “Put some pants on.”

“I see how it is. Someone wants the pleasure of undressing me first.” Dean shuffles on a pair of black boxers that are probably clean and a t-shirt that might have been Sam’s at one point, but it’s dry and that’s all Dean cares about at this point. “Now will you let me see your nails, princess?”

“Dude,” Sam says, pulling a face at where Dean’s left the towel to molder up close to the air vent.

“What do you care? We’re outta this place by check-out time tomorrow. Let me see your goddamn hands.”

Sam holds them out like when he was a kid and Dean made him wash up before they ate, when washing up was an option—only this time his face is less sullen and more…blank. Like Sam isn’t quite back yet from whatever headspace that being buried alive shoved him into. Dean remembers something like five stages of dealing with death and Sam had already hit anger before Dean could get to him.

“Anything feel broken?” Dean asks, but he can tell there are no dark bruises along the bones. He grabbed too fast; direct contact is making Sam’s colors bloom at the back of Dean’s skull before he can block them out, and what he sees there is…not good. Deep purple, almost black, like Sam’s got broken bones inside his head. Dean sucks in a breath to say—something, he doesn’t know what, maybe just a general string of concerned curse words, but the color shifts before he can blurt anything out. That familiar orange starts creeping in, burnt and kind of muddied but still there.

“Dean,” Sam says, and tugs his hands away. Dean feels a little like someone turned the headlights off on a long deserted highway, but other than that. “How did you find me?”

One of the gears skips in Dean’s brain. This, this would have been a really great thing to think about in the shower, which gave him plenty of time to come up with a believable lie. Instead he has to pull a quick face like Sam’s being ridiculous and say, “You’re still on that? Come on, Sam, I used, you know, the usual methods.”

Sam’s eyebrows pop up, then twist. “The usual methods?”

“Yeah, college boy, I’ve got methods. Step one,” Dean feels like he’s pulling shit from midair, but in this case it’s the truth, “I put a trace on the GPS in your phone.”

“Which I dropped, when she threw a coffin at my head,” Sam says, slow like Dean is stupid, “in a warehouse that was almost a mile from where—where you found me.”

“But it still got me close, alright?” Dean will gladly ignore Sam’s little verbal trip-up if it means he doesn’t have to relive the moment he found Sam’s cellphone right next to a splatter of Sam’s blood. “Jesus, Sam, what’s with the third degree?”

“I’m just a little confused as to why I’m alive right now,” Sam says, voice rising, gaze snapping a little. “So can you please just,” Sam bites out, reining it back in. “Can you just tell me so I can stop running it through my head.”

There’s something in Sam’s tone that’s frightening, something that reminds Dean of djinns and what he had to do to wake himself up. “Sam,” he gets out, almost a growl. He sits down on the bed across from Sam and braces his hands on his knees so he can’t reach out and touch like he wants to. “Sam, this is real.”

For a moment Dean thinks he got it wrong, Sam looks so shocked, but then Sam’s mouth pinches into a line and his hands fold over each other, not quite shaking but almost. Dean leans in. “I’ll swear on anything, I’ll answer any dumb question you think only I would know—“

“But if you’re inside my head,” Sam says carefully, “you’d just be my subconscious parroting back what I want to hear.” He tries to smile, and it makes the hair stand up on the back of Dean’s neck.

“My subconscious sure as hell didn’t tell me what I wanted to hear,” Dean says, trying to get a grip on the part of himself that wants to grab Sam and shake him. “I know you might be thinking genie right now? Maybe, maybe near death-experience? But I swear to any God you want me to, I got you out. This is real, Sam, you’re safe.”

“Dean,” Sam says, and now he looks scared, scared like if Dean touched him he’d be saturated in purples. “I can’t think of a single way you could have found me in time. I was hoping maybe there’d be tracks from where she dragged me from the building but there weren’t, Dean. Just miles and miles of graves and only one of them was mine.”

“Sammy,” Dean gets out before his throat threatens to clench up into a knot. Sam is freaked, near bolting; Dean can tell without his sixth sense, he’s practically screaming it. And it’s Dean’s fault, that he can’t fix it. No, not even that he can’t, that he won’t. “Ask me anything else.”

Sam’s breath comes in shaky, and goes out even worse. “Right,” he says, “okay. No, it’s fine, it’s just. I’m probably really tired, everything’s a little surreal. It’ll probably look better in the morning.”

“Sam—“ Dean starts, because there are weapons in this room and if his brother thinks for one second that Dean is going to sleep knowing that Sam might try to ‘wake himself up’ then he can’t see how Sam was ever smart enough to get into college.

“No, dude,” Sam says, faking a laugh so bad it’s painful to look at. “I know, but don’t worry about me. There are worse places to wake up as far as afterlives go.”

“What?” Dean grasps at the humor bone Sam throws him, but only to be nice. “Stuck with me in a hotel room that smells like wet towels and feet?”

“Uh,” Sam says, rethinking his meaningful look halfway through. “Yeah.”

“Yeah, well. You may have a point.” Hell is Hell, Dean knows from experience, but he’s pretty sure trying to sleep through Sam’s possibly suicidal frame of mind is tucked in there next to the sixth circle.

Dean drags a hand over his mouth and jaw, day-old stubble rough against his palm. He’s tired enough that his muscles ache at just that small movement, and Sam is still trying to smile reassuringly.

“Goddamn it, Sammy,” he groans out, heels of his hands against the back of his eyelids just to block it all out for a second. “God fucking damn it. You’re not going to believe me, and if you do you’ll never fucking forgive me.”

“Dean,” Sam warns, but he sounds more alert, more here already. “You and Dad lied to me about monsters not being real until I was nine. I got over it.”

“That was for your own good,” Dean blurts out because he’s an idiot and can’t help himself.

Sam’s eyes narrow, just enough to make Dean twist up inside. “So…you’re saying lying to me this time wasn’t for my own good?”

“No,” Dean says, swallowing past the honesty. “This was just, uh. Me being chickenshit. Maybe some self-preservation instincts thrown in there.” He looks down at his hands, not sure why he’s chuckling when none of this is funny.

“So here’s the thing,” Dean says, bracing himself. “I feel…feelings.”

Sam is quiet for a long, long time. Then, “I guess I really must be dead, because I’m pretty sure you’d admit having feelings, uh, never.”

“Shut up, Sam.” He’s pretty sure Sam is trying to joke, maybe tripped over into the manic giggling side of that surreal feeling, but it still sucks. “I’m not talking about my feelings, I’m talking about—I can see other peoples’ feelings. Specifically yours.”

“Dude, what kind of acid trip are you on?” Sam demands after a split second hesitation Dean would have missed if he’d so much as blinked. He doesn’t know what the hell it means, but he caught it.

Dean runs a hand through his own hair and tugs a little, trying to get his brain to work. “I don’t even know how the hell I can prove this to you.”

There’s a look on Sam’s face that says LAW SCHOOL in big block letters, and Dean chomps down on a sigh and leans back, preparing himself for the cross-examination.

“When, specifically, did these supernatural abilities manifest?”

“You know I love it when you break out the big words, Sammy,” Dean half-snaps, batting his eyelashes to take some of the sting out of it. Sam doesn’t give an inch. “Fine. I was twenty-two, your honor. Same age you were when you first started popping visions.”

“Dean,” Sam says, “that was seven years ago.”

“Wow, Sam, you can do math.”

“But you’re trying to tell me this is something you managed to keep hidden from me for seven years. …You. Who can’t let a fart go without announcing it.”

“You’re forgetting a pretty crucial fact here, Judge.” Dean raises a pointed eyebrow, but answers before Sam can figure it out on his own. “You were in Stanford for the first four years.”

Something flickers in Sam’s expression before he shuts it down, but that always happens when Stanford comes up. Dean hates it.

“Look,” Dean says, “as close as I can figure, there must’ve been some blood on your forehead when I kissed you goodnight after the fire. Or maybe Yellow Eyes got me when I was six months old, too—I don’t know. I’ve got a feeling I didn’t get that strong a dose, though, because it doesn’t really work with anyone but you. I mean, I might get flashes, but. What’s with that look?”

“You used to kiss me goodnight?” Sam says, with the same kind of attitude he had a million years ago when he said There’s no such thing as unicorns?

“Sam—“

“Alright, alright,” he says, backing off with his hands up even though it looks like he’s still getting a kick out of Dean’s emotional trauma.

Dean sits up straight. “I just had an idea.”

“How strange for you.”

“Shut the fuck up and wait here,” Dean growls, fighting his way free from the too-soft mattress to stand up and march to the door. “Just—stay in here and feel…feelings.”

He slams the door shut.

And realizes a little too late that he’s still in boxers and a t-shirt, and it’s the middle of the night in the middle of winter, and there’s an old woman ten doors down in a nightgown and curlers chain-smoking and admiring the view.

Dean gives her a little wave and a smile he doesn’t mean instead of cussing up a storm like he wants to, muttering between his teeth, “Hurry up, Sammy, feel something.”

Because there’s not a whole lot going on back in the room. Sam is a bunch of different things—an amused shade of yellow tinged grey with exhaustion, a couple flickering pulses of a sort of bluey-grey-light-purple that some chick once told him was called lavender, but in Dean’s head it just means confusion. Sam doesn’t know what to think. Which isn’t going to win any awards in the psychic department, any idiot on the street could have guessed that.

Then, after a few shivering moments where Dean has bounce a little like an idiot to stay warm, something catches Sam’s focus. In a shot of gunmetal grey Sam moves across the room with a purpose, concentrating on something so hard Dean goes stock still, because that’s the corner of the room with their weapons bag, and Sam—

Dark pink—bloody pink—streaks across Sam’s aura like a knife wound.

Dean barely hears himself roaring, “What the fuck are you doing?” amid the crashBANG of the door he kicked in smashing against the wall. He doesn’t look back at the damage, going for Sam so fast he nearly sends them both tumbling tits over ass on the floor because…because Sam is hopping around on one foot, biting his lip white to keep from cursing.

“Did you stub your toe?” Dean demands, incredulous, and Sam nods and crash-lands on a bed, finally letting out a low and mournful owwwwww.

“When I said ‘feel something’ I didn’t mean ‘maim yourself,’ you giant baby,” Dean snaps, heart still running a mile a minute. He tries to take a minute and compose himself by shoving the door back in place, securing it with the chain and a proper application of brute force, but no he’s still pissed off when he turns back around. “Did you do that on purpose?”

“Who stubs their toe on purpose?” Sam asks, wide-eyed.

“Well what the hell were you going over there for?” Dean jabs a finger at the lopsided table Sam never made it to, and the weapons bag shoved up next to its feet. “You were concentrating really hard on something, what was it?”

Sam’s aura flickers a little, solid core of gunmetal with lavender seeping in around the edges. Under other circumstances it might be nice to know he has this much of Sam’s attention, he’s never let himself look this much before. If Dean isn’t careful he’s just going to stare at Sam all day long, watching his colors shift like one of the toys they had as a kid, the thing that looked like a telescope but if you twisted the end the little rainbow plastic pieces would flip and make a new mosaic. Kaleidoscope, that’s the thing.

“I thought I might still have a picture of Jess in the lining,” Sam says, expression guarded but his colors going wild. Blue, but not as much as there used to be; the sky blue color of loss and navy for regret, but there’s a pale yellow shine over it all like he’s finally at peace with what happened, no more of the angry blistering darkness that had almost made Dean retch when he’d first seen it.

“You could have just thought about her,” Dean says, and then something finally clicks in his busted up brain. “Sam, that night—how do you think I knew to come back for you?”

Sam blinks, and Dean pulls his powers back, Sam’s emotions spinning too fast to watch without getting dizzy. Something in Sam’s gaze sharpens, like he caught something change, like maybe when Dean is Looking his eyes unfocus a little. Well, whatever, because Dean is entirely in his own skin again, and it’s better this way if there’s an actual fight.

“You were parked outside my building like a stalker and you saw smoke,” Sam says, voice flat.

“Dude, you were on the second floor. By the time I could get out of the car and up the stairs, you would’ve—” Dean stumbles over how to end the sentence and gives up, gritting his teeth. “I knew the instant you saw Jess. I didn’t know what you saw, but I…yeah. Plus I was already at the bottom of the stairs.” It’s dumb to feel embarrassed about something that’s such ancient history, but Dean can feel his face get hot. “I, uh. I wanted to make sure you got home safe.”

Sam’s eyebrows rise a little, uncertain. “You…thought I might get jumped in the stairwell?”

What Dean thought was that Sam might change his mind and get back in the car and go hunt monsters, forget all this lawyer bullshit and the girl next door and be Dean’s brother again. Dean used to have a lot of stupid dreams.

“You were—kind of all over the place. Emotions-wise, I don’t know. And out of practice, remember? Someone could’ve got the drop on you,” Dean finishes, kind of surly, talking to the floor. He wishes he was wearing jeans so he could shove his hands in his pockets. “Listen, can we just talk about this more in the morning? Or not. Not would be great.”

He doesn’t really need to Look to make sure Sam is thoroughly distracted from any thoughts that this isn’t reality, but he figures it doesn’t hurt to check. He knows Sam is watching him, expects a lot of gunmetal and not much else, so it’s kind of a surprise when everything is a bright familiar orange.

This orange, though. Dean hates that it stumps him every single time, when all of the other colors have emotions tied so tightly to them. He doesn’t know why this orange seems so warm and comforting, when the sight of most traffic cones makes Dean’s eyes water. He can feel it in his own chest like an echo, like the first breath of fresh air after hours breathing grave dirt, or the moment a flame touches gasoline.

When Dean catches Sam’s gaze it banks down fast, panic swelling up in its wake before Sam gets a grip on that too. Dean frowns, head quirked to one side. He feels like he gets more expressive when he’s Looking, some instinctual need to level the playing field.

Suddenly Sam rears up like he’s been shocked, tripping over his own feet when he stands. Dean pulls back into himself before he gets blinded. “Sam, what—“

“No,” Sam says, raising a roughed up hand, “Just. Hold on a second.”

“Oh…kay?”

Sam runs a hand through his hair until one of the bandaids on his fingers sticks to it, and he’s always had a sensitive scalp, this means a lot of cursing and twisting trying to get it free.

“You look ridiculous,” Dean offers helpfully.

“Shut up,” Sam snaps, “I’m trying to—you can tell what I’m feeling, alright, excuse me if it’s taking a while to sink in. Ow.”

“You believe me?” Dean blurts, and his voice sounds so hopeful he might as well be five years old again.

“Yes, I—I guess, Jesus Christ, Dean.” Sam looks miserable and freaked out, braced unsteadily against one wall. “So you—“ He can’t quite meet Dean’s eyes, and when he does he can’t keep it for long. “You knew. All this time. And you never said anything?”

“Well it’s not really something you’d want to know about your brother, is it?” Dean says, defensive because it was stupid to think they might skip over this particular minefield.

Sam looks like Dean just hauled off and punched him.

“I mean, come on Sam,” he tries, “You wanted normal, and this?” Dean gestures at himself, at the used rough whole of him. “This isn’t normal.”

“Right,” Sam says faintly. “Yeah, no, right.”

He looks like he might be sick—one glance at his colors makes Dean’s heart clench up like a fist. “Fuck, Sammy,” he says without thinking, just knee-jerk, painful response. “I know I didn’t react this bad when you came out of the psychic closest, what the hell?”

“But you knew all this time!” Sam’s arms fly wide, that thing he does to make himself look bigger, like he needs the help. “You knew how I felt and you—you could have hinted or something. You could have let me down easy, let me stop hoping. For years!”

“Wait, what?” Dean blurts. The whole room seems a little tilted, out of focus. Except Sam. “What were you hoping?”

“That you might—that we might—“ Sam stammers to a stop, looking pained and pissed off. “God, Dean, are you really going to make me say it?”

“No,” Dean says, and takes a cautious step closer, “I might have a better idea.”

Sam eyes him warily, lips in a flat, unhappy line.

“Because I think I forgot to mention,” Dean continues, “that I don’t so much feel things as see them, and I don’t get pictures, I see colors. And there’s, uh, just the one color I never figured out.” He reaches for Sam’s bare arm under the sleeve of his t-shirt, wanting contact to make absolutely sure. On a whim he lets his hand skim up, not touching yet, to settle on the side of Sam’s neck.

Sam’s eyes fall shut, and Dean braces himself for a barrage of color, not entirely sure what he’ll find in the aftermath. Instead, it comes on slow, like heat in the Impala, or sunrise creeping up the highway. Orange, such a bizarre, uncommon color, kind of strange, kind of exotic. It takes Dean’s fucking breath away.

There’s blue there, too, disappointed and aching, and all of Dean’s instincts want it gone. He tugs Sam down until their foreheads bump, and it sends a yellow spark up; their noses brush together and it’s mimosas all around.

“Sam,” he says, because he needs to hear Sam say it after all, suddenly terrified that he’s just seeing what he wants to, that this is just another crossed wire. “This is—yeah?”

Sam kisses him, and it’s like a bottle-rocket in broad daylight.

And Sam has the advantage here, with all his years of hoping, because Dean never even let himself hope—just repressed, ignored, denied the fuck out of every time he looked at Sam a little differently than brothers, the casual thought that slipped through his mind or the whiskey-addled day dreams. But Dean is nothing if not a fast learner, at least when it comes to this. Sam kisses him and he opens up, lets Sam in and clutches at him for balance until Sam stumbles them into a wall.

“Ooff,” Dean grunts when his back hits it. “Who says I’m that kind of girl?”

“Really?” Sam says, kind of wild, not answering Dean’s question at all. “I mean, really? You want—with me? Because—earlier you were— And I need you to be—“

Dean gets a hand in Sam’s hair and guides him back down, gently because he’s a wuss, but firm enough to show that yes, he means it. Sam growls—growls—but it’s playful, happy, as he presses grinning, disbelieving kisses to Dean’s mouth. And fuck, I he good at kissing—Dean doesn’t know why he expected Sam to be clumsy, especially living with Jess who would have sure as hell taught him how to do it better, but it floors him all the same, leaves him embarrassingly weak-kneed and overwhelmed, gasping for breath in the best possible way.

“Jesus, Sammy, fuck—“ Dean cuts off in another strangled curse as Sam tries to lift him, and he probably could (which fries every circuit in Dean’s brain) but Dean squirms out of his grasp and away from the wall. “No. No, I am not some buck-ten, five foot chick you picked up at the library.”

Sam quirks his eyebrow, Could’ve fooled me, and it doesn’t detract from the predatory look in his eye in the slightest. His aura is more sunset than citrus, and oh, oh wow that suddenly makes sense, because yellow and red make orange.

Dean strips out of his t-shirt to hide his face while he digests that, and then Sam is on him, tackling him onto the bed. Muscle memory has Dean’s elbow swinging up to hit Sam’s face—which Sam dodges, thankfully, and pins Dean to the mattress like it’s no effort at all. Well, after the first few seconds it is no effort, because Dean gives up, downstairs brain hijacking his muscles and whispering, Chill dude, roll over, this is the way we get sex.

Dean’s mouth is still running, though, which probably says something about him. “You want a piece of this?” he asks, rolling his ass back up against where Sam’s hips are holding him down, and then, “Fuck, is that all you?”

Sam laughs, somehow deep and breathless at once, and nuzzles the back of Dean’s neck like he really is some chick that needs calming down. “Have you ever done this before?” he asks, and it should be patronizing, Dean’s pretty sure, but it’s Sam.

“Sex with my brother? Nah, pretty sure that’s something I’d remember, if it ever happened,” Dean says with another pointed buck of his hips, trying to make Sam get on with it and failing miserably when Sam just holds him down harder, Dean’s dick trapped against his belly. “Sammy, come on…”

“Answer the question or I’ll find you in contempt of the court,” Sam orders with an amused nip under Dean’s ear, startling enough to make Dean yelp.

“Nothing. Never,” Dean bites out. “That answer enough, your honor?”

Because Dad might have actually killed him if he got caught, and because too many men over the years have commented on his pretty mouth and expected him to be flattered. Because if he did ever meet a guy that interested him, they always looked a little bit like Sammy.

A shiver runs through Sam’s frame, making Dean tense up. “No, hey wait,” Sam says quickly, reacting to that, “that’s fine, hell, that’s great, I just didn’t expect—hey.” Sam slides off to one side just enough so Dean can turn his head without breaking his neck, and Sam kisses him until Dean can’t quite remember why he was frowning. Sam’s hand slides down his bare back along his spine, bandaids not-quite scratching at his skin, light enough to make Dean shudder and lean into it.

“Even if you had,” Sam murmurs, voice teasing as his fingertips shift under the band of elastic in Dean’s boxers, “you’d be all rehymenated, remember?”

“Sam—“ Dean hisses in a breath, not sure if he’s protesting or…not.

“When my hands heal up I’ll finger you until you cry,” Sam whispers, the same way he’d announce some little-known fact about a monster on their way to kill it. Dean about swallows his own tongue. Sam grins. “Until then… Hold onto something.”

Dean obeys without thinking, same sort of combat training that makes him duck and dodge when Sam shouts his name in the middle of a hunt. There isn’t much of a headboard and if Dean really pulls on the slats they’ll probably snap in half, but it’s something to think about other than wonder what the hell Sam is doing, dragging Dean’s boxers down his thighs, his calves, ankles and off, pushing Dean’s legs apart and settling between them.

“What’re you—oh Jesus fucking…Christ,” Dean gets out, strangled, twisting up and forward and, just, everywhere, and Sam licks another wide, wet trail along his crack. “Sam, Sam that’s—nnnghh.”

“Payback,” Sam says with a smack of his lips so loud Dean can hear it, and he knows Sam is grinning without needing to look. God, the sight of him right now might actually kill Dean, especially when he ducks his head back down and laps at Dean’s hole, pushes down and wriggles his tongue, trying to work his way inside.

Dean feels like he’s burning up from his core out, the weird feeling of being wet back there and Sam and Sam’s hair brushing against his skin and the pressure of Sam’s palms holding him open so when he pulls back to breathe he can see Dean’s asshole twitch, fuck, who knew his brother was such a kinky fucker? He thinks about pink silk panties and wonders deliriously what Sam will think, if Sam would try them on, and the last bits of control he had over his supernatural abilities slips and shreds.

He can feel everything, and best of all, he can feel how Sam enjoys it, actually feel it, not just see the colors but feel the ache of Sam’s dick and the way he’s getting off on this, the taste and smell of Dean’s clean skin and the way Dean is trying to hold still and failing. It’s all driving Sam higher, and it’s a feedback loop, Dean choking back a cry and rutting shamelessly against the bed until Sam flips him over.

Dean’s reeling from the move and the loss and his ass is not just wet but cold, now, and Sam looks, oh god, Sam Looks, and when Sam ducks his head down to blow him Dean is already so close to coming he barely has time to get a warning out. Sam just swallows him down to the root and holds him down when Dean can’t stop himself from trying to fuck up into his mouth. Dean’s vision goes white.

So does Sam’s, apparently. He pulls off almost too fast, dragging in a handful of stuttering gasps as his body jerks between the cradle of Dean’s legs, fingers curling—probably painfully—against Dean’s hips.

“Holy fuck,” Sam groans out, and as Dean’s sight returns he can see Sam sweating and pleasure-shaky, still twitching in aftershocks and barely holding himself up, cock huge and untouched, come splattered everywhere against Sam’s belly and Dean’s thigh. Sam turns his face into Dean’s hand when he reaches up to push some sweaty hair out of Sam’s eyes, and Dean lets him, tries not to be as thoroughly earth-shattered by this moment as he was by actually coming.

“Did you do that?” Sam asks finally, collapsing down onto his elbows when his arms give up. This leaves them mashed together, sticky and uncomfortable, but Dean can’t find the words to complain. “With the—I mean, ‘cause. Wow.”

Dean makes a noise that could mean…anything, really. He doesn’t have a clue.

Then he starts laughing, just a little at first and dissolving helplessly into it, ignoring Sam’s complaining face when Dean’s chest shakes under where he’s pillowed his head. Because Sam is happy, no-holds-barred happy, and Dean did that. Dean did that.

Dean laughs until he hiccups and then Sam drags himself up with a longsuffering sigh he doesn’t mean and kisses Dean until his colors deepen and go gold.

In the morning Sam will probably remember about the color thing and pester Dean about it, show up with color-wheels from the library and dissect it scientifically, because that’s what Sam does. He might even remember what the hell they were fighting about earlier today, what made Sam storm off into the night and nearly get himself killed. And maybe Dean will threaten to blow him on the hood of the Impala in broad daylight just to shut him up, and maybe he’ll do it anyway because that sounds like a good idea.

Right now, though, Sam rolls off him so they can try to arrange all six-foot-plus of themselves into one queen-size bed. When Sam turns off the lights, Dean props himself up on one elbow and leans over, plants a kiss smack dab in the middle of Sam’s forehead, and says, “Night, Sammy.”

Sam rests one of his banged up hands on Dean’s chest, right over his tattoo, and says, “You too.”

**Author's Note:**

> This fic can be found [HERE](http://queenklu.livejournal.com/354457.html) on LJ if you're interested!


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